The quiet between them had stretched into something sweet—an intimate silence, soft as paintwater and warm as the golden pools of lamplight that spilled across the studio floor. Luna lay with his head tucked into the crook of Ryan's shoulder, his breath slow, unsure, heart still echoing with every rough whisper Ryan had pressed into his skin moments ago.
Ryan's fingers threaded lazily through Luna's hair, soothing, thoughtful, as if sketching lines only he could see.
But then—tap... tap... tap...
The sound of heels on tile, echoing up from the stairwell.
Ryan stiffened beneath him, breath pausing in his throat. "Oops," he said coolly, that same smirk creeping back into his voice like a blade returning to its sheath. "Looks like my cousin's on the way."
He sat up, kissed Luna's temple, and without a beat of hesitation, scooped the boy into his arms like a secret too precious to leave lying in the open.
Luna blinked, dazed and pliable, not protesting as he was carried past the row of easels and into the shadowed corner of the studio. A black velvet curtain concealed the back aisle—a pocket of the world hidden in plain sight. Ryan slipped behind it and gently laid Luna down on another couch tucked there, soft and sunken, where art students sometimes napped between lectures and obsessions.
"Lay low," Ryan murmured, brushing Luna's hair out of his eyes. "Just for a minute."
Luna nodded, curled in on himself. He wouldn't ask questions—not when Ryan's voice sounded like that. Not when his hands still lingered like the echo of a kiss.
Then Ryan was gone, parting the curtain without a sound, his back straightening as he stepped into the lamplight once more, slipping into the role of caretaker, cousin, boy with nothing to hide.
The footsteps grew louder.
Reality had arrived.
And Luna, hidden in shadows, clutched the faint scent of paint and aftershave and secrets like a guilty prayer.
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